


On Menlove Avenue

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a dark, dark night in Woolton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Menlove Avenue

On the central reservation that runs along the middle of Menlove Avenue, there are trees. Oaks, some of them are, Paul thinks, but he can't be sure. He's never been that good at knowing that sort of thing and besides, he's usually in too much of a rush to get somewhere - either John's or the picture house that he's late for or back home before his dad realises the time.

Still, the trees are there. And one very early morning (three twenty seven am, to be precise, though Paul isn't taking notes), in the pitch black that only the middle of winter can bring, John pushes Paul up against one of the trees and kisses him.

Paul finds that actually, he's not surprised. 

He knows John's not _like that_ \- has seen him with far too many girls and if he's honest with himself, Paul isn't _like that_ either but even he can tell his friendship with John is different. It plays by different rules to the other friendships Paul has, feels it's own certain way. Some people you'll just be mild acquaintances with, some people you'll play in a band with and yet still not like at all, some people you'll love like a brother and share everything with.

But John doesn't fit into any category at all. Paul felt it right away; felt the way John leaned against him at the fete, stinking of booze and thought - this one is different. Not just _John,_ (though yes, John is bloody different to everyone else) but _them._ The way they interact, it's just so... complex. It _means_ so many things. Paul sometimes tries to work out how many layers there are to it, but he can't, and it gives him a headache. So he stops, just puts it down as a JohnandPaul thing. And he loves that phrase in his head; loves that if his name is going to be associated anyone's in that way it's John's.

So when he feels the coarse bark of the tree pressed against his back (painful even through the jumper he is wearing and the leather of his jacket), he doesn't feel surprise. Instead he just gives back as good as he gets, shifting as easily into the kiss as if they'd been doing it for years. It instantly feels right, instantly feels _normal._ It's sort of just an extension of all the other things they do, anyway. It gets heavy pretty quickly too, goes from zero to sixty in a few seconds - that doesn't surprise him either.

He's never had a mate like this before. Already knows, pressed against that tree, that in his long life, he never will again.

They don't worry about being seen; it's so late most other people are in bed and they are shielded from the sight of the rare car that passes by the shadows of the trees. Besides, Paul isn't worried about anyone else; rarely thinks about anyone else when John is in the room, anyway - he's certainly not going to start when John is pressed up against him, one hand clutched possessively at his hip. 

The one thing that _does_ surprise Paul (and will go on surprising him, almost every time they do this in the future) is the way John seems to change in moments like this - he immediately feels envious of Cynthia, getting to see this all the time, whenever she wants. The way he seems to fall apart a little bit amazes Paul, and goes straight to the familiar heat building in his stomach. It's _sexy_ watching John come apart; probably because he's so cool and macho the rest of the time - he's the only one of Paul's friends who already seems like a man, even though they're still teenagers. Stu is still light and fragile, almost like a ghost, George still seems like a little boy, Paul is always aware of the age difference, and Pete _looks_ like a man, but he's too clingy with his mother for Paul to see him as anything but a kid. And Paul knows he isn't very manly either, with his baby face, but John is the only one who can carry off the leather jacket and is the one who - if they're not too frightened of his temper - gets the girls. It's something about his shoulders, the way he looks at you straight on, stares you down.

So to see him _needing,_ turns Paul on more than anything he ever imagined. When he realises that their kissing is making John's knees weak and he has to drag him closer, support his weight, Paul feels like he's king of the world for a minute. _John Lennon,_ he thinks, _I did this to him._ And it makes him smile, which makes their kiss momentarily awkward, so Paul tries to push it to the back of his mind.

"What you smiling at?" John asks, lips against his mouth, not able to pull away properly to ask.

"You," Paul answers, dragging him closer still so that it's like they're trying to fuse, trying to climb into each other's skin. Even though they've never done this before it feels like they _have,_ so Paul doesn't feel embarrassed to explain what he means. "You turn me on."

And immediately John breaks their kiss to groan against him in a desperate sort of way. Which makes Paul laugh. He pushes a hand up into the back of John's hair, almost like he's holding him. 

"God," John says, and his voice is deeper than usual, which makes Paul shiver. "Why did I do this in the middle of the fucking road?"

Paul smiles against him. "Yeah, you could have waited until we were in your house." His voice cracks slightly on the word 'until' on account of the fact John is rolling his hips against him and Paul is hard now, properly hard, and John is too.

"Never get any privacy in there," John mutters, before kissing him again. It's more uncoordinated than before, on account of the fact they're both nearly panting, keep having to break away for great gulps of air. John keeps moaning, the noise dragged from his throat as though he's trying to stop it but just can't. The sound of it makes Paul feel like his whole body has turned to thick, melted liquid and he's not sure how he's still upright. 

He catches John's mouth in a kiss again and they somehow bump noses, lips too wet. The touch of a tongue against his causes Paul to grip onto John harder, rub shamelessly against him. He can hear John's fingers scrabbling at the bark on the tree behind him with the hand that isn't still holding Paul against him - for a second Paul inches his mouth away from John's, presses their foreheads together and opens his eyes. He watches; John looking perfect at this angle, breathing hard and trying desperately to cling into an ounce of self control. Paul thinks he could come just watching him like this, just staring at his red, parted lips that are swollen and bruised from their kissing. Paul thinks John is beautiful; maybe _that's_ what's so different about this friendship to all the others.

Not shy about what he's contemplating, Paul lets the hand that has been resting in John's hair slip down, fingers running over his jaw for a moment. It causes John to open his eyes so that they're staring at one another, all of the usual defenses and barriers that John wears even for Paul dropped and gone. It makes Paul even more sure of what he's going to do.

With the hand that has been resting on John's hip, Paul pushes him back a little bit, giving himself just enough space. And then he slips his free hand between them, palming John through the denim of his jeans. The noise John makes causes Paul to tingle all the way down to his feet. He maintains eye contact as he rubs at the hard bulge beneath his hand (even this doesn't feel strange; he wonders why they haven't been doing this before now) and watches John lick his lips slowly, carefully.

"Don't stop," John pants. "Don't - don't stop."

Paul feels himself smile a little. "I won't."

"Oh God," John groans, shutting his eyes, "You'd better fucking not." Paul feels him shift restlessly against him, desperate for something harder, faster, so Paul complies. He feels something tighten ominously in his own stomach and keeps his eyes locked on John.

"Like that?" he whispers, gripping him harder, and John nods against him, fast and distracted. Paul isn't sure he can hold on, but then John is groaning ("Paul - Jesus _Christ."_ ) and the second the weight of another body collapses against him, the contact is enough and Paul comes too, burying his face into the curve of John's neck.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't know where this had all come from, probably be lying too if he said he didn't think it would happen again. Paul doesn't know how much closer they can get after this, but assumes they'll probably keep trying; suspects that nothing is ever going to be enough for this particular friendship, so strange it almost feels like they're an extension of the other. But he doesn't want it any differently, doesn't want it to change.

Paul can hear John's breathing slowing down, evening out to somewhere near normal. "If you fall asleep on me against a tree, I'm taking my songwriting skills elsewhere," he says. After a second there is a muffled reply, located somewhere in the neck of his jumper.

"What songwriting skills?"

Paul smacks him on the arse. "Get off."

"Just did," John replies in a smug fashion that is totally ruined by a yawn as he steps away. "Ah, yuk," he says, adjusting his jeans.

Paul smiles lazily at him. "Home?"

John nods. They continue along Menlove Avenue together, eyes startled by the occasional bright lights of the cars disappearing past them into the wintry Liverpool night. Paul isn't even sure if it _can_ just be a friendship now, definitely no longer a brotherhood. More, he thinks, and wishes there was another category, something he could define them with. 

But maybe they don't have words for things like this in language - maybe it takes more than just simple syllables to describe it.


End file.
